


Mire

by MurasakiNoAo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs mention, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentioned violence, Reunions, Unrealistic Hopes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4101151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurasakiNoAo/pseuds/MurasakiNoAo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was one thing that Sherlock wished to do, it was to see John. Of course, taking a nice long bath would be a close second on that list, but that was given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mire

**Author's Note:**

> “Envy hurt exponentially more than heartbreak because your soul was torn in two, half soaring with happiness for another person, half mired in a well of self pity and pain.” ~ Diana Peterfreund
> 
> Wrote most of the events from memory, so please excuse any mistakes.

If there was one thing that Sherlock wished to do, it was to see John. Of course, taking a nice long bath would be a close second on that list, but that was given.

While on his small, agonizing trip to take down everything that was left after Moriarty shot himself, Sherlock would often think about this among other things. Whenever he found himself in a tight pinch, he’d think about the troubles he had received when encountering a tricky problem with his experiments. Whenever he was almost starving because he had run out of currency, he’d remember the little biscuits he’d always find with steaming tea beside it when he got up in the morning, evening, sometimes night. And whenever he felt pain from the tortures he’d taken on, he was reminded of gentle, stern fingers guiding him to bed after a particular dosage of the usual.

He would gladly take another scolding, if only to hear that voice again.

On this particular night, hanging from chains as his bare back was beaten and bruised and bled, he forced his mind to cloud into the thoughts of memories. Their first meeting was what came to mind. Such blatantly innocent times those were. It cleared his mind for the task at hand: making sure the guard was thoroughly out of the way.

Spilling foreign words from his tongue and using the skills he was often praised for, he successfully caused the man to go running off to his cheating wife. Silence filled the chambers as it was just him and the lone man watching. Footsteps approached softly until his hair was tugged violently skyward.

Mycroft.

“It’s time to go home, little brother.” And he couldn’t hide his smile, his joy at the prospect of _home_. Of John.

 

* * *

 

The trip back was relatively quick and easy. Private jet, private flight. Before he knew it they were back in England and he was being shaved and dressed in the proper attire. Mycroft began rambling off about his problems that apparently he couldn’t solve on his own, and Sherlock momentarily relished in the fact of his brother crawling to him for assistance.

Of course he would help in the case, but at the moment he tuned down the other’s voice so he could concentrate on his look. It would be a dishonor for his partner-in-crime-solving to see him so disheveled, like he really was revived from the dead. He stifled a chuckle as he imagined what a good laugh they’d have over the whole ordeal. He couldn’t wait to see John’s…

…Mustache covered face? Oh well, there was bound to be some change in the course of a few years and he shouldn’t be so surprised. Really, the fact that John wasn’t at Baker Street anymore, wasn’t waiting for him like he had planned, shocked him the most.

“He’s gotten on with his life.” Mycroft reported somewhat condescendingly.

“What life? I’ve been gone.”

But now he was back, and everything was going to be as it was before. It had to be.

 

* * *

 

In truth, it was a brilliant plan. Hilarious. They’ll be talking about it for years to come and it will never grow old.

Sneaking into the restaurant was the easiest part. Stealing the stuff required to make his act realistic was also fairly simple. Quick movements of the hand and distractions here and there lead him to the table where John, unaware and distracted by his date (another woman who’ll most likely be gone by the time the month is over, Sherlock figures), sits sipping wine.

Several failed attempts at gaining his attention later ( _why aren’t you looking at me just look at me please I need you to look at me let this go as planned stop looking at_ her _and look at_ me), John finally loses his patience for this fake waiter and turns to really tell him off when-

“Surprise…”

Now, don’t get him wrong. In his mind, this was a brilliant plan. Hilarious. One that could not possibly fail.

But as soon as he reads the look on John’s face when he realizes, no, this is not their waiter, this is someone who has been dead for years, who jumped from a hospital roof and bled on the sidewalk and _died_ , Sherlock finds that his plan didn’t account for Mycroft’s words to be true.

_“He’s gotten on with his life.”_

John takes deep breaths, squeezing out words that emit the pain he’s been feeling since that day, the same pain Sherlock felt when he overheard the words spoken to his empty grave, and the oh so great detective that everyone made him out to be flails inside his brain for something to say, something to _do_ , and suddenly he wants to cry. When was the last time he really cried?

Placing the best, fakest smile he can muster, Sherlock asks the question that makes everything explode.

“…Are you really going to keep that?”

Hands to his collar and feet flying backwards, John tackles him to the ground as everyone else in the restaurant yells and makes way for the unexpected violence. Sherlock’s mind, for once, is blank of all thought.

 

* * *

 

All other reunions go just as Sherlock had planned them, save for a hug from Greyson. By now the news has gotten wind of his return and, apparently, social media sites are buzzing with excitement.

Though, really, at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Back at Baker Street, he stands in the doorway, small amounts of dust lingering in the air. How long had John been here without him? When did he decide to never return? Sherlock couldn’t bother looking in the direction of the abandoned room.

Why couldn’t he have just waited? Waited like he did in Sherlock’s mind whenever he entered his thoughts. He had counted on his partner to wait, to cling onto hope and trust. Was this why he felt so… betrayed?

Perhaps it was because that woman - _Mary_ \- had, had taken advantage of John’s weak state - _had he been weak? Had he mourned for him? How high was the pain?_ \- and somehow convinced John, _John_ , that having a domestic life - _domestic life!_ \- was a better way of living than waiting here, at Baker Street for Sherlock to come back and continue their own life together.

“I didn’t mean to take this long.” He murmurs to the chair, John’s chair, empty and forgotten.

But… John is engaged now. Engaged to that woman, to this Mary, and their going to get married. They’ll move in together… They’ve most likely already had sexual intercourse if he were to put in the fact that this is John he is thinking of… Thoughts of offspring and squealing babies catches his mind off guard and suddenly he needs a smoke, his patches, _anything_.

His stash is gone, long gone most likely. This only makes him more agitated, digging his nails into his forearms. Sherlock slides into his chair, almost flinching at the tiniest squeak it lets out from its own years of unuse.

Time passes, whether slowly or quickly he cannot tell, and eventually he picks his head up to look at John’s chair. He can almost imagine its owner sitting in it, watching him with concern, making sure he doesn’t do anything too drastic.

Sherlock smile is miniscule and borderline sarcastic. “I’m sorry.” Silence, waiting for the illusion to speak. “I was too late.”

But there is no response. It’s just an empty chair after all.


End file.
